The Covering

The world is being erased.

You watch it happen slowly.

Yesterday's snow is just a shape now,

a suggestion under what's falling.

Twenty minutes at the window.

Your breath on the glass.

The air is so thick with white

you can almost chew it.

It's not that it's quiet.

It's that nothing breaks the quiet.

No sound that doesn't belong.

No sound that isn't already part of the covering.

You can't see the street.

You can't see the tree line.

Everything is becoming the same thing—

a long, soft erasure.

And you're standing here

not moving,

letting it happen to you too.